Car Crash
by FamousNoOne
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is involved in a car crash, and it helps him realize a few things about himself. My first Sherlock fic. Rated T to be safe.
1. John POV

**A/N: Hello, lovelies! I bet it's weird to see me writing a SHERLOCK fic, right?! Well, I have to admit, it wasn't exactly expected, but I was listening to Car Crash by Artist vs. Poet (great song, you should all check it out) and this happened!**

**It may seem quite sporadic, but I wrote it over the course of a week, and I was in very different moods, so I apologize. This is certainly not my best piece.**

**But, I hope you all enjoy! :)**

Car Crash

John wasn't paying attention as he made the left turn. All he knew was that he had the green light and he needed to get back to his new flat. He was coming from 221b Baker Street with the last of his things. He had given all of… All of _his_ things to Mrs. Hudson, who said she was going to leave them there for when _he_ returned. She was in denial, and it broke John's heart, but he couldn't stay with her. He couldn't stay in that flat…

Suddenly, there was a loud squeal, and the shriek of metal on metal. John didn't realize that he was flipping through the air until he finally landed. He didn't feel any pain, didn't feel anything. It was uncomfortable, not being able to move, but he assumed it was because of the airbag. Not that he could see anything; his eyes wouldn't open.

He tried to scream but no sound came out. He didn't like this feeling, but he heard sirens in the distance and knew that someone would come to save him.

Someone was tugging on his arms. He didn't know how he knew, because he couldn't feel them, but he knew, just like he knew that someone was cutting him out of his seatbelt. John was thankful that he would be out of the wreckage soon, and he knew that the paramedics would save him.

"He's not breathing," he heard someone say. He wondered vaguely who they were talking about, then felt the uncomfortable sensation of unfamiliar lips against his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. He wanted to push them off but he still couldn't move.

Stop touching me, he wanted to scream. Stop pushing my chest! You're breaking ribs!

But no sound came out.

John decided that he would let them do what they needed to do, and he fell again into oblivion.

He woke with a gasp. There were bright lights and beeps and hands flying above him. What was happening? He tried to sit up but he was pushed back down by a set of strong hands. He followed the hands to the face of…

"Oh, God," he moaned. There was no mistaking those icy eyes, or those sharp cheekbones almost hidden behind the surgeon's mask. _He_ was here, and he was operating on John.

"He's awake. I need Propofol," someone said. Why did he need an anaesthetic? He was perfectly fine. He was in completely capable hands. _He_ wouldn't let anything happen to him.

Suddenly, John felt himself falling asleep again.

Don't let them hurt me, he thought to _him_, just before he fell back into the abyss.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

John awoke slowly and painfully. His head was throbbing, his left arm was heavy and felt like someone had stabbed him, and his legs were tingling and just as heavy as his arm. Slowly, John opened his eyes, narrowing them against the light. He was in a white room, a white room that smelled of bleach and other chemicals.

Why was he here?

Then it all came back to him. Leaving his old flat. Getting in his new car, which he would need to drive from his new flat to his new job. Thinking about all that had changed since _it_ happened. The crash. The operating room. _Him_.

John was in the hospital.

Sherlock was in the hospital, too.

How was that possible?

"You're awake!" he heard someone say. He looked toward the voice to see a female nurse in light pink scrubs holding a clipboard. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts," he said, sounding like he had gargled gravel. He winced at the sound of his voice.

"Okay, well, I'll just increase the morphine and we'll see how you're doing," the nurse said, coming over and messing with his IV.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked, wincing again.

"Well, Dr. Watson, when we brought you in you were barely alive. We lost you on the table, but the doctors kept trying. It didn't seem like you were going to wake up. In fact, we were almost ready to announce you dead," she said softly. "But something happened on the operating table and you came to life. We put you to sleep and reset your bones; your left arm and both of your legs were broken. You were a centimeter away from being paralysed for life, too. But somehow you pulled through." John took a deep breath, then regretted it. Right, broken ribs from the CPR.

"Am I going to be okay?" he asked. The nurse smiled fondly at him.

"Absolutely. You should make a full recovery. It's quite a miracle." She flitted around for a few more minutes, checking things and making sure he was comfortable, then left with a smile and a promise to return.

Now that John was left with his thoughts, he was unsure if he had really seen Sherlock. It could have just been his imagination. He had been drugged and injured, so he wasn't sure he could trust his eyes.

Oh, but he wanted to. He wanted Sherlock to be alive. Needed it, in fact. Sherlock had opened him up to a whole new life and John wasn't ready for it to end. He needed the thrill, craved the adventure, and desperately wanted his best friend back. Sure, he had Molly and Mrs. Hudson, but they were all too busy grieving to actually have lives.

They all needed Sherlock back.

But they all knew it wasn't going to happen.

John had just been clinging to that hope, that miracle that Sherlock would turn up, alive and well. He knew he had hallucinated Sherlock in that operating room, he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. But he had to. He had been so lost when Sherlock died that he wasn't himself anymore. He had been full of anger and grief, and, of course, loyalty to Consulting Detective, but he wasn't living his life.

John knew that he needed to let go of that hope. There was no way anyone could survive that kind of a fall.

Then again, John thought, staring wide-eyed at the doctor who had just entered the room, maybe they could.

His heart swelled as Sherlock removed the surgeon's mask and smiled at him.


	2. Sherlock POV

**A/N: Hello, lovelies! I got a request to do Sherlock's side of the story, so here it is! I'm not quite sure what I was thinking when I started this, because Sherlock is such a difficult character to write, especially from his POV, but hopefully I didn't let you down too much.**

**Enjoy! :)**

Sherlock was running toward John's car before the other car had even stopped moving. There was no way John was going to walk away from this, and Sherlock didn't feel comfortable letting anyone else take care of his best friend. He was cutting John's seatbelt with his pocket knife before he knew what he was doing, and was thankful that someone had already called for an ambulance. He pulled John out of the seat just as the paramedics arrived.

"I'm sorry, John," he muttered close to his friend's ear. "I'll see you soon."

Careful not to let anyone see his face, he ran from the scene desperately hoping the paramedics could save his friend.

Sherlock made it to the hospital seconds before the paramedics did, and he had already washed and scrubbed up, secretly making his way to the operating room that would hold John. It wasn't particularly difficult, and he didn't have to be as careful to hide himself as the surgeon's mask and cap did most of that for him. When he saw John, though, all mangled as he was…

Stop it, Sherlock. Focus.

It was difficult, but he'd learned enough from watching Molly and reading her books that he knew generally what to do. He had help from the other surgeons, of course, and together they got John fixed up and off to a room to heal.

The look in his eyes when he'd seen Sherlock…

Confusion, at first, then… had that been happiness? Was John happy that he'd seen Sherlock? That made little sense, John probably only looked happy because he was alive. What other logical reason could there have possibly been for the look in his eyes?

Making his way out of the operating room, still careful not to look at him too long, Sherlock slipped back into the morgue and straight back through to Molly's office. He ripped off the mask and the cover and fell into her desk chair, earning a huff from the blonde when she realized Sherlock had taken her seat.

"How is he?" she said, moving past him and knocking his feet off her desk at the same time.

"Alive," Sherlock sighed, his hands steepled under his chin.

"Obviously," she said, leaning against her desk. "With you in that operating room with him I don't see how he could be anything but okay."

"Thank you, Molly. It means a lot to me to hear you say that."

"I need to see him, Molly," Sherlock argued, banging his fist against the wall. They – meaning Molly – had just got the call that John was awake and Sherlock was desperate to see his old friend when he could actually speak to him.

"You can't go until I've finished here, Sherlock. It will look odd, a random doctor showing up at his door. I've told you, you can go when I can be the concerned friend looking for his room."

And so he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After what seemed like hours, but was really only about ten minutes, Molly announced that she could accompany Sherlock up to John's room.

He smiled with relief and threw on the surgeon's clothes again, practically bouncing out of the morgue.

They slowly made their way up the four flights of stairs to John's wing, taking the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid being seen by too many people, and then made their way down the hall to John's room.

Sherlock was anxious. He hadn't properly seen John since the fall, and that had been months ago. What would he say? What would he do? Would he willingly accept Sherlock or would he reject him because of what he's done to the soldier?

"Sherlock, if you're going, you need to go. I'll let you have a few minutes but then I'll have to go in as well. Hurry," Molly said, glancing around to make sure no one had found them suspicious. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath.

He opened the door and stepped over the threshold, heart racing with anticipation. When he saw John's face, though, the look of wonder…

Sherlock smiled and removed the surgeon's mask.


End file.
